


CSI: Greendale

by FrenchTwistResistance



Series: I’ve Always Been Crazy But It’s Kept Me from Going Insane [12]
Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, H/m is merely referenced but same universe so I counted it, I just want caos to be a sitcom where hot middle-aged ladies kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:20:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22876204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrenchTwistResistance/pseuds/FrenchTwistResistance
Summary: Hilda enlists Zelda on a black ops mission.
Relationships: Hilda Spellman & Zelda Spellman, Hilda Spellman/Mary Wardwell | Madam Satan | Lilith
Series: I’ve Always Been Crazy But It’s Kept Me from Going Insane [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1597594
Comments: 10
Kudos: 12





	CSI: Greendale

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in early season three. Not exactly an au as I’m trying to comply with canon events to an extent. But also, I’m kind of ignoring some stuff, twisting some stuff for my own benefit, inventing some stuff, and also just generally doing whatever I want by the seat of my pants.

“Double damn it!”

It’s 2:14 am and a new moon, so it’s pitch black in their room. Hilda has just shot straight up in bed, awakened by a sudden, horrible thought.

Zelda groggily turns on her bedside lamp so that Hilda will definitely be able to see the angry look on her face as she says,

“Why are you yelling? Be advised that if your answer is not adequate, I will provide a more compelling reason.” She has a .38 in her nightstand and a switchblade under her pillow, so Hilda knows she means business and also doesn’t know whether her answer will meet Zelda’s two am standards.

“Mary Wardwell is back to being Mary Wardwell, isn’t she?”

“This is blathering, not an answer,” Zelda says as she’s propping herself up on an elbow to better see Hilda. She hasn’t made a move to reach for anything yet. Her face is less angry and more like a “get on with it”—a blasé interest in where this might be going.

“I hope she hasn’t been to her back shed yet.” Hilda’s throwing off her covers and hurrying over to her closet, rummaging through her dresser. “It’s especially dark tonight. Maybe I can—”

“Hildegard. What are you talking about?” Zelda’s sitting up fully now. Hilda turns and sees concern and confusion, gathers her wits, says,

“Don’t think she should have to deal with Mar—Lilith’s pot stash.”

“Excuse me, Lilith’s what?”

“It’s really quite a funny story—” Zelda rolls her eyes.

“Save it. But do tell me: what asinine plan has your middle-of-the-night brain come up with to burglarize Miss Wardwell’s home for a few joints in the back of a desk drawer?”

Hilda laughs at Zelda’s presumption.

“How about this: I’ll let you in on some of the profit if you help me.” Zelda clicks her tongue, says,

“Profit? I don’t see—” her eyes widen in realization. “You really know how to pick ‘em, Hildie. That opium peddler in Toronto. That biker woman who got arrested in a bar fight. And now some dope-growing demoness.”

“Excuse you! He was not an opium peddler; he was a dentist. And that was not a bar fight; it was the Stonewall riots. The last one is accurate, though.” Zelda shrugs:

“Hmm tomayto tomahto. What’s your scheme, then, sister?”

“Is your appraiser license up to date? I let mine lapse.”

“Of course it is. I’m not an irresponsible goose who runs around with hooligans selling weed instead of keeping up with my certifications.” Hilda tosses a stocking cap at her, says,

“Oh just put on some black clothes and shut up, you old mule.”

xxx

They’re both in black slacks and turtlenecks and loafers and stocking caps. They’ve parked the black Crown Vic at the end of the drive. They’ve successfully padded silently around back to the shed. There’s one light on in Mary Wardwell’s cottage, but Hilda knows the layout of the place and can tell it’s the bathroom light. Probably on for comfort. Mar—Lilith, Hilda reminds herself, had liked to sleep with the radio on but no lights. She wonders what real Mary’s habits might be. She shakes herself out of that thought as she does a little magical tap with her index and ring finger on the padlock. The door does not squeak as they pull it slowly open because Hilda had WD-40ed the hinges herself when she’d helped _that woman_ put everything on drying racks.

Hilda shuts the door behind them, and Zelda clicks on her flashlight, scans.

“Lake of Fire! No wonder you hopped right into bed with that snake slut in stilettos! This much green translates into a lot of greenbacks and probably very nice presents for one’s favorite trollop. You _were_ her favorite, weren’t you?” Hilda huffs and says,

“You are insufferable. Stay on mission, please.” 

Hilda grabs Zelda’s hand and starts chanting under her breath. Zelda’s chanting, too. And then she squeezes Hilda’s hand, but Hilda doesn’t register it as a signal. So Zelda stomps on Hilda’s foot.

“Ow! What?”

“That is the wrong conjugation of ‘mittere.’ Keep on that way and we’ll have a metric ton of hash in our parlor instead of the cellar.”

“Oh no we won’t either. Only preposition errors do that!”

“And you’re willing to risk it because of your pride?” Zelda says.

“Fine. You start the incantation, then, Professor Spellman.”

Zelda does so, and Hilda joins in, the right conjugation this time. And in a few minutes, the shed is vibrating and glowing with magic.

“Goat farts!” Hilda whisper shouts. “I forgot about that side effect!”

“We’re nearly done. You need to focus!” Zelda whisper shouts back.

They resume, and the magic glows brighter and then there’s a pop and a hiss, and everything’s gone. The shed is clean and tidy, push mower and gas can in their proper locations. They take another look at their success. They high five, and Zelda picks up the flashlight from the sod floor, clicks it off. 

But it’s not dark. 

The single overhead bulb has been flipped on somehow. They both turn to find the door open, Mary Wardwell standing at the threshold shivering and holding her green silk robe closed with one hand. There’s a .45 in her other trembling hand. It’s not pointed at them, just pressed tightly against her thigh. Hilda gets the impression that she’s trying to steady herself against the steel barrel.

“Excuse me. Who—wha— Miss Spellman? And Miss Spellman? What are you doing here?”

They both have their hands up in surrender, and they cast a glance at each other. Zelda says,

“We’re unarmed. I’m going to reach into my back pocket for my badge. Ok?”

“I—” Mary starts and then stops. She looks at each of them in turn, gaze landing back on Zelda. She nods. 

Zelda slowly and non threateningly pulls a thin black wallet from her back pocket and opens it toward Mary and then tosses it to her feet, returns to having both hands up. Mary squats down to pick it up, her wide, confused, frightened eyes still on Zelda. She stands and glances down at it and back up a few times.

“Arson investigator? What’s this about? Has something happened?”

“Nothing to worry about, Miss Wardwell. You’re not suspected of anything, and you’re not in any danger. Noxious chemical check. A tip came in that a suspect in an arson out near Scarsdale Unincorporated may have broken into your shed to store his accelerant. But your shed is clean, and we’ll be on our way.”

Mary’s staring at her and clutching the gun in one hand and the badge in the other. Her robe has fallen open, and Hilda’s having trouble not raking her eyes over her svelte body draped in one of her favorite of Mary’s silk nightgowns—salmon colored with delicate lace at the bottom edge that feels so decadent against naked, heated skin.

“But—there was a flash of light…?”

“Yes. Part of the chemical analysis process,” Zelda says.

“And—why is your sister here? Is she also an arson investigator?”

“It’s the middle of the night, Miss Wardwell. I didn’t want to be alone in the woods, and Hilda is very protective. She’s little, but she’s scrappy. Once when someone got fresh with me, she bit him.” Hilda holds in a sigh and an eye roll. This might be laying it on a bit thick. Although she does remember that incident well. A USO dance, a drunk Marine. She’d—also drunk—jitterbugged right on over and got him when she’d seen the distressed look on Zelda’s face.

“Oh.” Mary looks at Hilda and blinks a few times and blushes and then turns back to Zelda. “Well. That seems. Reasonable. Um. Thank you. For clearing my shed, I guess.”

“Yes, well. Just doing my civic duty.” 

Mary holds out the badge at full arm’s length, and Zelda takes it from her.

“Have a good night. Drive home safely,” Mary says.

“Thank you. Try to get some sleep, Miss Wardwell,” Zelda says. Mary laughs a little nervous, uncomfortable laugh, says,

“Oh I never sleep.”

She watches them walk down the drive from the relative safety of her porch, still clutching the gun. 

Once Hilda’s started the car, Zelda says,

“Did you see the way she looked at you? At this rate by the time Sabrina graduates, you’ll have banged the entire Baxter High faculty and the ruler of Hell as an added bonus.”

“You’re obscene. She didn’t look at me any kind of way, and for the record I’ve only banged the ruler of Hell. Principal Hawthorne was a nonstarter, and Miss Kingston and I never—”

“I know. I just like to rile you up. But she did, in fact, look at you some kind of way. I’d bet she was thinking about what it’d be like if you bit her,” Zelda says suggestively.

“Leave that poor woman alone! Lilith used her body as a flesh suit for months; who knows what she’s going through right now!”

“You’re right,” Zelda says in a fair approximation of contritely. “I should stick to teasing you exclusively.”

“Exactly,” Hilda says. “And on that note, not that I’m complaining about the outcome, but what happened to the plan? I told you to bring your appraiser license as a cover.”

“Well. Two things. One, I lied. I did let that license lapse. For the same reason you did, no doubt: Appraisals are boring and tedious and more trouble than they’re worth. And two, my middle-of-the-night brain works better than yours. I knew an arson investigator would be a more plausible identity for the situation. No one does appraisals in the dark, but arson, much like poor Miss Wardwell, never sleeps.”

“You really are a genius, Zelds. I appreciate you.”

“60-40 on the marijuana, then?” Zelda says with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Sure. I already got a fur coat and an evening gown out of it anyway.”


End file.
